Behold the buildings weeding through the autumn leaves.

The clouds crying out their mascara onto dried land.

The wind whistling a melancholic hum and sadly bereaves.

All the hopes and dreams sinking slowly in quicksand.

The sun and the moon goes all paranoid in their courses.

Scavengers and wild beasts are waiting for a war each day.

Feeding on fading grass all the goats, cows and horses.

Keeping the thoughts of the time to come at bay.

The poor smile at the passing by suits with their skin and bones.

The government fill their pockets with paper and steel.

Everywhere the people are living in glasshouses and heart of stones.

And some run amok just to manage a feed of three times meal.

The smoking streets are decorated with batons and blood.

All the things that wind speaks of is behead and kill.

Decomposed bodies all filthy with smoke, dust and mud.

Which satisfaction of human instinct does all these fill?

War and blood is just salt and sugar on the table of life.

Cut-throat and vehement competition between men and men.

This is the real event of a shield and a sharp and shiny knife.

Which I write down with all my mind in paper and pen.

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